Aisa POV
Aeon shot out the door like a streak of sunlight — fast, unpredictable, and utterly impossible to catch.
"Don't make trouble," Aisa called after him, her voice soft but firm. She knew it would barely slow him down; Aeon and trouble had been inseparable since his first steps. Still, she spoke, partly out of habit, partly because even a little hope of control was better than none.
She exhaled, smiling despite herself. That little whirlwind had filled a void neither she nor Essa had dared touch for years. The house, once silent and careful after Marcus disappeared, now hummed with laughter, shrieks, and the occasional crash of overturned chairs. Aeon had a way of making even disasters feel like celebrations.
Her mind flicked to Marcus — the gold and silver he had left behind, enough to make some Viscount houses look small. It wasn't just wealth; it was freedom. Freedom for Aeon and Essa to grow, to play, to live without fear, even if it could never replace the father they had lost.
And Aeon… he was no ordinary child. From the start, she had worried for his mind, drifting like a fragile flame during his first year. But now, relief and fascination tangled in her chest. He learned, he imagined, he created — games like "rock-paper-scissors" that twisted into endless variations, recipes that became family favorites, little machines that somehow worked even when logic said they shouldn't. His body, deceptively small, was strong enough to knock down children twice his age. Every day was a new puzzle, a new miracle, a new headache.
She shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. The boy was trouble, yes, but the kind that made hearts bloom instead of break. Essa, of course, adored him with a fierceness that sometimes bordered on suffocation — clinging to him after training, smothering him with affection until even his laughter turned into squeals of protest. Aisa often worried: if Aeon was fire, Essa was storm, and together they burned brighter than she sometimes dared to hope.
With practiced motion, she raised her hands. Runes hovered, symbols twisting and spinning in the air until a small fiery bird appeared, flickering like a candle in a breeze.
"Go," she murmured. "Watch over Aeon. Don't let him break anything… too badly."
The bird shot out the window, leaving a trail of sparks behind it. Aisa allowed herself a tiny laugh. Perhaps a little hope wasn't so foolish after all.
Danger, though, was never far. Just last week, Aeon and his friends had wandered too far and almost walked straight into a slave trader's trap. They hadn't seen it coming; she had intervened before anyone even knew something was wrong. In Aeon's eyes, the world was endless adventure. In hers, it was a chessboard of schemes, hidden knives, and unseen eyes. Veloria might look peaceful to strangers, but she knew every corner could hide mischief or malice.
Her thoughts drifted to her own past — born a princess of one of Artia's most powerful ducal houses, raised among politics and schemes she had never wanted. Her childhood had been games of power, cruel and precise, where smiles hid daggers sharper than steel. How far those days seemed when compared to Aeon's laughter or Essa's tantrums. And yet, she knew the day might come when she would have to return. One could never truly leave power behind.
Her reflection was broken by the slam of the front door.
"Aeon! I'm back!" Essa's voice rang, full of concern, impatience, and a little indignation.
Aisa sighed again, but this time it carried warmth. Essa would fuss, throw a tantrum, stamp her feet if Aeon wasn't immediately found. That was normal. That was love. And Aisa let herself hope — for Aeon, for Essa, for the fragile little family she held in her arms in her mind even now — that no matter what dangers came, they would find joy and laughter along the way.
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Aeon POV
The witch's house loomed behind the fence, its crooked roof barely visible over the tall boards. To Aeon, it looked less like a house and more like the start of a grand tale.
They traced the fence line, tiny hands tugging at planks, little feet kicking the base, searching for weakness. The air buzzed with whispers of daring, though after a while even Aeon grew impatient.
Just as he considered boldly marching to the front door, Mike's voice split the air.
"Found it!" he cried, jabbing his finger toward a sagging plank.
Aeon hurried over. The wood there was loose, rotting at the edges. His eyes sparkled. A perfect entrance.
But before he could move, Pent puffed up like a rooster, thumping his chest. "Stand back. I'll do it!" He shoved his stick into Mike's hands, grabbed the plank, and strained with all his might. His face turned red, his arms trembled, but the board barely budged.
Pent scowled. "This won't work. We'll have to find another spot—"
"Wait," Aeon cut in smoothly, mischief already dancing in his eyes. "Let me try."
Pent gave him a look that dripped with doubt — the kind of look that said, You're too small; you'll fail too. Aeon ignored it. Without waiting, he snatched the stick from Mike, wedged it neatly into the crack, and gave a sharp push.
SNAP.
The board gave way. A neat hole opened, wide enough for them to crawl through.
Pent's mouth fell open. Mike gasped.
For just an instant, something sharper glinted in Aeon's eyes — calculation far too quick for a toddler, as if the move had been less chance and more inevitability. It passed in a blink, but if Aisa had seen, she would have worried again.
Aeon dusted his hands and smirked. "Simple. Now, listen carefully. This place is dangerous. No shouting. If anything happens, just whisper in my ear. Got it?"
The two boys thumped their right fists against their chests in a knightly salute, mimicking soldiers they'd only seen in parades. Aeon nearly burst into laughter but held it in.
They slipped through the gap one by one, swallowed instantly by the tall grass on the other side. For Aeon and Mike, the stalks were taller than their heads, turning the world into a shifting green maze. Only Pent, the mighty four-year-old, could see over them.
"Alright, Pent," Aeon whispered. "You lead. You've got the tallest eyes."
Pent nodded gravely, puffing up again at the honor. He forged ahead, parting the grass. To them, this wasn't just a backyard. This was a dungeon. Every rustle was a hidden beast. Every shadow could hide a treasure or a trap.
Then Pent froze. His hand shot up in warning. "There! Something's glowing."
All three froze. For a heartbeat, silence held them. Then excitement surged, too strong to resist. Whatever caution Aeon had urged vanished as they bolted toward the light, laughter spilling out despite their attempts to stay quiet.
They stumbled into a clearing and gasped.
Before them rose a plant nearly a meter tall, its branches bearing five luminous fruits. They glowed like captured stars, silver-green light shimmering across the children's awestruck faces.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then the awe dimmed, replaced by a nervous edge. They all knew the dangers of eating strange magical things. Bad stomachs, fevers, or worse — every child in Veloria grew up with those stories.
Aeon broke the silence. "Anyone know what it is?"
Mike and Pent shook their heads quickly.
Aeon's grin returned. "Then we pluck it, keep it safe, and ask Grandma Hera later."
At the name, both boys flinched. Mike shivered so hard his teeth almost chattered. Pent's face paled.
Grandma Hera — the demon alchemist.
Her little shop sat crooked at the edge of the neighborhood, always reeking of bitter herbs and smoke. She was ancient, her skin faintly gray-blue, with curling black horns and ember-bright eyes that seemed to see through skin to bone. She teased mercilessly: threats of boiling naughty children alive, grinding them into powders, pickling them in jars.
For most children, she was the stuff of nightmares.
But Aeon? Aeon adored her.
The first time Grandma Hera had leaned down, horns gleaming, eyes glowing like coals, and whispered that she would boil them into potion-broth, Mike and Pent had frozen in terror. Their little legs had nearly given out.
Aeon, however, had burst into laughter — the loud, unrestrained kind that made him topple backwards into a pile of jars. To him, her threat wasn't fearsome. It was comedy.
Still chuckling, he puffed out his chest and declared with a grand sweep of his arms:
"Grandma, if you really boiled me, I'd only come out stronger! For as the future greatest magician, why would I ever fear a cauldron?"
Mike and Pent had groaned miserably, tugging at his sleeves, their faces pale with dread. But Aeon only scrambled back up, his eyes catching on the crooked shelves that lined her shop. Strange bottles glimmered with shifting colors, powders sparked faintly inside sealed tins, and runes crawled across parchment that smelled of smoke and old herbs. Aeon's grin widened — this was no ordinary "store" It was a treasury of secrets, proof that alchemy itself was magic in its own right.
Straightening again, he added with dramatic flourish:
"And tell me this—what sort of 'greatest magician' would I be if I didn't master even the smallest of arts? A mere alchemy? Hah! To ignore it would tarnish my name before it is even written in history!"
His words rang with absurd pride, theatrical and mischievous all at once.
And Hera? For all her threats, Aeon had once caught a flicker — the faintest smirk tugging at her lips, a gleam in her ember eyes that looked almost like amusement. He remembered it, treasured it. Because in that glint he saw possibility: not just a monster in children's tales, but a keeper of secrets waiting for the right thief to steal them.
Now, standing before the luminous plant with its five glowing fruits, Aeon's grin turned sly. Yes… this would impress her. Perhaps even enough to make her bend.
Unseen by the others, deep within him, something stirred — the silent watcher that had carried him to this world. For an instant, the air seemed to hum with an awareness beyond mischief, as though destiny itself leaned closer to listen.